


Fair's Only Fair

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: First Time, M/M, MOSTLY Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'So, that was a serious offer, was it?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair's Only Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebelxxwaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/gifts).



> Happy birthday, **Rebel**! :D
> 
> Endless thanks for the beta go to **Loz**.  <3

'Had fun today, didn't we?'

'I don't think that word means what you think it means, Guv – just what exactly did you think was fun?'

'Was thinking about the part where we didn't die, mostly. Bloody close call though, wasn't it?'

'Had closer.'

Sam looks up and glances across the desk, and meets Gene's gaze head-on. Two weeks prior and they had only just survived the fiasco at the _Manchester Gazette_. Gene had got his picture on the front page, and Sam had also got something he'd wanted: nobody had to die. It couldn't be so simple. No, Sam had also been forced into a somewhat unwanted quandary of his own: Gene mattered more to him than a simple coma-construct, one more hallucination in this world that couldn't possibly be real, if his reaction at Gene's apparent death meant anything.

Of course it did.

It seemed like time had stopped. Gene had copped it, shot in the chest by Reg Cole. Gene couldn't be dead – no, not when Sam cared for him, even respected him some, so much more than he'd previously thought. It was a neat turnaround on what the scenario had been, a few minutes before: Sam on his knees with the barrel of that same gun against his head. Just what had been running through Gene's head at the time? He'd heard Gene's words – _When you're done with him, you'd better turn on me quick, Cole, or I'll kill you_ – and this was Gene Hunt, who said what he meant and always meant more than he said.

At the time, he'd been thinking more about living his life without Gene – which, a day before, wouldn't have bothered him, right? He'd had other, more important things to deal with – such as Gene's apparent death, protecting the glory of his final collar from Litton's thieving hands.

He glances back down at his paperwork. There's things he could say, but it's too likely he'd pick the wrong one, so he keeps his mouth shut. The desk creaks as Gene leans his weight into it, and Sam prods the nearest leg of the thing with the toe of his boot, producing a wobble.

'This thing's seen better days,' he says, casually enough, scanning over Chris's notes, the handwriting running the gamut of legible to not, some squiggles halfway in between the two extremes. 'You really ought to think about getting a new one.'

Gene guffaws at Sam's remark. 'Well, you should think about getting a new attitude, so fair's only fair.'

Sam pauses, looks up. Gene's still looking down, scowling at the latest bit of paperwork he's going over – Ray's handwriting is only marginally more readable than Chris's is – one more sheaf of it in an infinite pile about the stuff. Sam thinks about it and yes, while fun isn't the exact word he would have chosen, the days still had some impact on him. While it would have been better if they could have avoided the need for the shoot-out completely, they survived it unscathed.

Light catches in Gene's fringe, and Sam takes a moment to appreciate it, how his face is shadows and curves. He's survived a lot – he needs to start appreciating the smaller things in life, learn to take time to smell the figurative roses.

'Not dying though, that was nice.'

Gene gives a tired huff of amusement, doesn't push and prod at what Sam 's said. Not dying was something, yes, but they shouldn't have been in that shoot-out in the first place, and Sam's surprised that Gene's not somehow decided it's all Sam's fault and called him on it yet, what with his sometimes backwards logic: they had been working to the same end, but as usual their methods varied, and neither of them had known that Mickey had a gun on him (that's when everything went dicey). Sam was trying to talk the gun out of their suspect's hand, but Gene was acting more directly and hoping to antagonise him into wasting his bullets: where Sam was looking to diffuse the situation, Gene was definitely pressing for it to escalate.

No one ended up getting shot, Mickey emptying his rounds into the half-wall they were crouched behind, and by the time he had the presence of mind to run around the minor obstacle and fire on them directly, his gun was empty. Gene was able to tackle him to the ground and wrangled him into his cuffs. Still, the sound of the bullets pinging off the brickwork, the dust that rose in the air, how it had been close... so close.

'Just nice?'

Sam shrugs. Nice really isn't the right word, but there's no suitable replacement waiting in the wings, and Gene's going to have to deal with it.

The clatter of Gene tossing his pen down causes Sam to startle and look up. Gene pushes his chair back, stretching his arms up, his back popping a few time as he cracks it, Sam wincing at the sound. 'What?' Gene's expression is close to sulky now, the pout of his lips. 'Been stuck here for hours, needed a stretch.'

'That's the funny thing about crime: catching criminals causes paperwork, but they can't be expected to fill the bloody stuff out.'

'Might be effective punishment though, you reckon?'

'This stuff is important, Guv – even the parts you've got to fill out in triplicate. We've got to keep thorough records, and they have to be precise. The details matter.'

'Yeah, had this talk before, haven't we? That's what delegation is for.'

'It's a fair and equitable display of power, Guv – you might be the boss, but you're also just one of the team. It's good for morale.'

Gene huffs again, rolling his eyes. 'Maybe that works in DCI Tyler's world, but this here is DCI Hunt's.'

Sam opens his mouth to say something – yes, actually, that's exactly how it works in DCI Tyler's world, or used to work, because he's not a DCI here, is he? He sags back into his seat, staring down at the paper he'd been clutching, the text starting to crawl across the page. In DCI Hunt's world, you booze around with your team at the pub and you treat them like mates, though it's less often these days that you exclude the one who's been the outsider from the start. Sam takes deep breath, feels it rattle about in his lungs, the text continuing its crawl. He is losing it – he's already lost.

' – Gladys?'

Sam shakes his head, snapping out of it. 'Sorry – what was that, Guv?'

Gene glares at him, sharply annoyed. 'Bloody hell, you're extra mental today. Been acting up since before the shoot-out, so it can't have been that – don't tell me, with the hours you keep, only thing you've been able to catch on telly is Doctor Who.'

'Actually, no,' Sam says, and then he laughs. It starts as a chuckle, but it takes him by surprise, turning into a full belly laugh, the kind that makes his eyes teary and leaves his gut aching like he's been punched. He wipes at his eyes and Gene's still staring at him like he's gone and cracked and who knows, maybe he has – a little bit more, and all his fractured edges are there for Gene to see, finally. 'Sorry,' he manages, at least once he's composed himself. 'Just reminded me of something Annie said, once.'

'This is bloody riveting conversation, it is. I do so love it when you tell me how I remind you of the plonk.'

'Clearly, it must be because of your nice tits.'

They stare at each other another moment, the air gone heated – Sam knowing he's probably said too much, the way he almost always says too much, and him not thinking of the possible consequences until it was impossible for him to take it back.

Not that he won't try.

'I wasn't saying – '

Gene, though, throws his head back and laughs out loud, one of his fists slamming down onto the desk, which reminds them both just how rickety it can be as it shakes dangerously on its legs. His pen rolls off one side, hitting the floor with an even louder clack. Sam, sat frozen in sudden terror, laughs a few time as well, not that he's anything even close to relaxed, or the situation even remotely funny. Then, as the laughter stops, he's back to fearing for his life full throttle, because clearly this time, _finally_ , he's signed his own death warrant – Sam chuckles a few more times, each repetition weaker than the last, ending with a pathetic sounding cough.

'Might have to kill you for that,' Gene says, in that casual tone of his that leaves Sam wondering if he's being serious or not. He thinks sometimes that there's nothing Gene enjoys better than screwing with his head, which hardly seems fair in either the long or the short run – even Sam's mind is out to get him, after all.

'Guv – '

'Cartwright certainly would have, you used that line on her.'

'God, never – I like to think I have a little bit more class than that.'

Gene's still got that look on his face, that tone in his voice, and Sam too confused to see straight. 'What did you try on her, then?'

'What? We're not turning this into what kind of chat-up lines I would use, if I used them.'

'Yes, I think we are.'

Sam rolls his eyes, frustrated and annoyed – but, at least he isn't dead, so it's a few steps in the right direction. 'I wasn't being serious with her, and I'm not being serious with you. Just let it go, alright?'

'You're the one who started it, only seems right you follow on through.'

'Why, because that's how it works in DCI Hunt's world?'

Gene bares his teeth as he grins, sharp and menacing – which is, in Sam's current predicament, oddly arousing. 'Exactly.'

'I said to her...' Sam sighs, because the sooner he gets it over and done with, the faster they can get back to work. 'I said to her, 'Please shag me, I'm in a coma', but you don't know the context, and like I was saying, I wasn't being serious – '

He doesn't mean it now, the way he hadn't meant it then, but there's a spark in Gene's eyes that got Sam more than just thinking he's said the wrong thing, no, he's considering the epitaph he's going to be leaving behind. Gene's chair shrieks across the floor as it's pushed back, and he's up and moving about the desk, his expression gone blank, and that's so much more dangerous than a glare. This is it – this is really it. Maybe, since Sam survived his near-execution at the Gazette, this is how he's meant to exit this world and return to the other: via his DCI's hands, as he soundly beats the shit out of him. It's late enough, and there's no one else in CID. No witnesses, though would Gene really want to put all that effort into cleaning up his mess? Murder's not exactly the cleanest business there's ever been, but maybe he's hoping to get away with it, all because he's the Guv. He might need to call someone in. Sam's morbidly certain Ray would absolutely love to lend Gene a hand at this hour of the night, especially if the task was helping to dump Sam's dead body.

Sam opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

He's moving suddenly, Gene grabbing at the lapels of his shirt and wrenching him upwards, the chair hitting the floor as it clatters backwards. The tips of his boots scrape across the floor as Gene yanks him up further, face to face now, Gene's breath hot and raw, bacon butty and smoke, whisky as well.

And while Sam fears for his life – like he has for the last, what, three or so minutes now – he was aroused already and now he's hard as a rock, straining against his painfully tight trousers. He's scared, yes, but he's also turned on, and the mix of endorphins is heady.

He could die like this, he thinks, and he can't be half as frightened as he thought he was, because he finds himself okay with that idea.

There's a flicker across Gene's face, and his expression goes sombre – mildly amused, instead of coldly enraged, and his attention shifts downwards. Sam is hard, and the way that Gene is holding onto him, he can't help but press the length of of his straining erection against the other man. It just isn't possible, and Sam should know.

He opens his mouth again, but words still fail him.

Gene's eyes have flickered back up, caught hold of Sam's, and he slowly smacks his lips together. Where Sam is speechless, Gene has no trouble: 'So, that was a serious offer, was it?'

Sam thinks he should shake his head only then he's nodding, dazed and confused, and even more aroused. Gene makes a thoughtful noise, his eyebrows shifting upwards. And then, without much aplomb, he spins them around and tosses Sam towards the desk.

Sam knocks against the edge of it, hard enough to bruise, but he catches himself and doesn't end up sprawled on the floor. He pushes back and braces himself, breath shuddering as he stretches his legs wider to help balance himself even as Gene kicks them further apart. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the table, wondering if this is just one more hallucination, and hoping it isn't – his consensual sexual experiences is this decade are down to zero, and he's man enough to admit to himself that yes, he is perfectly okay with the idea of letting himself be fucked by Gene Hunt.

He almost wants to know what's going on inside Gene's head, but 1973 has been frightening in general and getting that deep inside his DCI's skull would certainly take it to terrifying new heights. He's what he is, a relic of this age, a Neanderthal where Sam is modern and forward thinking, though he does keep managing to surprise Sam from time to time.

There's no escaping one very simple fact: this is as gay as it gets, and Gene is supposedly straight, so just what is Sam missing? What exactly is going on? Maybe, in _Gene's_ mind, there's a loophole that suits him as well as this archaic landscape; if Gene's doing the penetrating, he's the man, and the other bloke's the fairy (he calls Sam enough girl's names as is, they've plenty of precedence in that department already). Straight as a plank of wood, that's his Guv.

Maybe it's all relative, and maybe none of it matters. Gene's weight and heat are against his backside now, and Sam bites his bottom lip as Gene brushes more firmly against him, the shape of his erection obvious and real, so very real. Heady doesn't even come close to describing how it feels now, and if he could just get himself to stop thinking so much, he could probably get off on the anticipation alone.

Gene's hand strokes up from Sam's hip, Sam's lashes fluttering as he moans, Gene's fingers warm, even through Sam's kit. The slide upwards, tugging a bit of it free and then sliding up beneath his shirt, slipping back downwards to toy along the edge of his trousers. That, all that, those little details, are the only things that matter right now, how Gene's hand keeps moving, how it's steadily moving south

'Oh god,' he says, as a fresh wave of realisation crests inside him. It hits him, really hits him, what's going to happen. He hasn't got any complaints, but he stills needs a moment to brace himself, mentally more than physically.

Gene's hand goes still, but his fingers are only hotter. 'You having second thoughts?'

'Is this happening? I mean – yeah, it's happening. Are you really going to shag me over your desk?'

'Could do you against the filing cabinet instead, if you're going to make a fuss.'

It takes him a second, maybe not even that, for the laughter to burst out of him. Sam shakes his head, forehead rubbing against the glossy tabletop. He's never considered his thoughts towards Gene as anything even close to lustful – annoyed and outright enraged are both much better words, but this really isn't the time – but now that's he's thinking about it, Gene's attractive in his own way and perhaps that means Sam is, in turn, attracted to him. He's lusting for him, right now, and he wants Gene to want him – what more do they need?

He's thinking too much, trying to over-analyse the situation, and that needs to stop, now. 'Guv, no, it isn't – look, it doesn't matter. The desk is fine. Let's do this.'

'Just fine?' Gene's chuckle is hard and fast, like a punch, and Sam a bit dizzy in the afterglow. 'Right-o then – get your trousers open for me, I've only got so many hands.' He draws his hand back, though not without one last languid stroke, fingers dipping beneath the band of Sam's trousers. Even when it's gone, there's still the memory of it, warm against his skin.

Sam chuckles, closing his eyes, keeping himself steady with the one hand and lowering the other to grip at his belt. He tugs it free, hears Gene's zip, the shuffle of cloth. He's only decided to wonder what Gene plans on using as lubricant, and as much as this is happening and it shouldn’t be happening, Sam doesn't think Gene would have the foresight to keep any stashed in the office, alongside his many flasks.

Gene grunts, gives up on letting Sam do half the work – delegation, right? – and he gets one of his hands underneath Sam's body and Sam catches his breath as his zip goes down and his eyes snap shut again as Gene's hand reaches in and rubs against his dick, extra friction where it snags against his pants.

Sam whimpers. He doesn't think he means to, but it happens, and Gene chuckles and tugs his trousers backwards, his pants too. Sam has to readjust himself, his legs spread too far for his trousers to go down as much as either of them would like, and Gene's leaning against him now and that's the full length of his hard prick, pressed into Sam's skin. Gene's breath is hot at Sam's ear, his fingers warm where they brush at Sam's lips.

'Gotta get 'em good and wet for me, Sam – better be _thorough_.'

Sam nods, still a bit dazed, but he opens his mouth and licks at Gene's fingers, Gene sliding himself in. He licks and sucks and imagines it's Gene's cock that's in his mouth instead, and he hums in delight and that catches him off guard, it's all catching him off guard. Gene heaves out a laugh and his lips brush at Sam's ear, and he pulls his fingers from Sam's mouth, eliciting a wet pop as well as another whimper.

'You ever done this before?' Gene asks, as he circles round Sam's arse-hole with one spit-damp finger.

Sam nods and forces out a 'Yeah' as Gene starts wiggling the digit in. 'Bloody hell, Tyler – relax.'

And he does, maybe because Gene's said it in that _other_ tone of his, the one that makes Sam listen even when he doesn't want to.

The secret being, right now, that this is exactly what he wants.

He breathes in, and out, as Gene's finger sinks deeper, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he groans, losing himself in the feel of it. The spit isn't nearly enough to make this as easy at it could be if they had the proper tools on hand, but there's something about the blur of pain that helps make it even better, and Sam finds himself appreciating the attention to detail. Sam's breath shudders and his cock twitches and Gene laughs, low, hot, delicious. It's like, in a way, Gene's reading his mind.

'Touch yourself,' he says, and Sam reaches up and slides his palm down the length of his prick, grasping himself hard at the base and grunting as Gene gets another finger inside him. Sam braces himself all over again as Gene works him open, extra thorough what with the lack of real lubricant, using extra spit to help ease him along, and all the while Sam keeps squeezing himself, a throttle hold on his dick. He wants to give in, tug on himself, but he's waiting on the exact right moment, the one that hasn't yet decided to happen. When Gene's sunk inside him, with something other than his fingers and the pain is really pushing against his boundaries, that sounds more than just right.

'Hurry up,' he gasps, and Gene laughs again, a lick of it down Sam's spine, and Sam forces himself to not tense as Gene twists his fingers and pulls them out, begins the slow process of pushing in with his dick. And it is slow, achingly even, and Sam growls at it, the time that Gene's taking. 'What part of _hurry up_ do you not understand?'

'What part of _I don't want to tear you apart_ do you not understand?' As if to emphasise what he's said, he spits onto his hand and rubs it onto his dick. It's easier now, as he pushes in – and when the moment is right, when the tension's gone and it all seems effortless, Gene snaps in, rolling with his hips.

'Oh,' Sam says, as if it's the only thing he can – and, as his tongue goes dry, his throat gone thick, and him close to seeing stars, perhaps it is. He opens and closes his eyes several times in slow succession as Gene pulls himself out and then slides back in, gripping at Sam's hips now, pulling him back into the thrust. Sam squeezes his aching prick and slides his other hand up further onto the desk, lifting his head up and resting it against his forearm. 'Okay.'

A judder runs through him, the source of it being Gene's laugh. Sam winces and takes it all in, and there's nothing he can do now – nothing he wants to do, really – other than take it, be taken by his Guv.

'Just okay?' Gene grunts, but the laugh is still there.

'Better'n okay,' Sam snaps back, but his words are slurring, his accent getting thick, his mind caught up in a fog of lust. 'But if you're expectin' a full appraisal... evaluatin' your performance an' all, you're not gettin' it until we're through. At...' He pants, knows he needs to catch his breath, 'At your leisure, of course.'

There's another hot laugh, and Sam suddenly realises that, if the situation is right, that patience is overrated, not that there's much to be done about it. He grinds his back teeth together as Gene slides in deep, deeper, flush against him now, the hard, colder press of his zip, a bit of cloth in the way. That sends another shiver running through him, and Sam is spring-loaded now, itching to move, needing it badly, so badly, for Gene to just slam into him and damn all the consequences, to give him what he needs.

Right now, this is exactly what he needs.

'Well?' He gasps that out, sweat slipping down his cheeks, beads of it striking the table top. Gene's nails are blunt where they press crescents into his skin, Gene sliding out and then thrusting right back in. It is everything that Sam was hoping it could be, him at Gene's mercy, sliding forward onto the table, the whole thing rocking beneath them, even as Sam strokes himself in time. 'God – fuck, please, Guv, y'really need to get a new _desk_.'

Gene's slammed back in on that one word, and it hits Sam so precisely – the details matter, right – and he's seeing stars, stroking himself roughly now, the tempo of it veering off course as Gene invades him thoroughly. Gene, being himself, doesn't let up. He was already leaving bruises with the grip he had on Sam's hips; they'll be darker now, deeper, as Gene clutches at him, Sam rocking into it, completely out of control.

It doesn't last much longer, not as Sam's strokes quicken, Gene pounding into him as though he never means to stop. The table makes a few choice noises, creaking all over, and Sam prays it doesn't break beneath the assault – this isn't how he wants to die, in flagrante delicto. They're both panting, Sam's chest is heaving, and he spills all over his hand as Gene jerks him back, painfully rough, growling Sam's name as orgasm hits him, and him slamming into Sam. Sam grips at the table's edge with his slick hand as Gene gives him a few more thrusts, gentler now that he's spent, Sam sore all over, and Gene going soft inside him.

He slows, slows some more, stops. There's a groan that Sam places as his own as Gene swats one arse-cheek and starts pulling himself out, Sam's knees threatening to give out on him as he's left leaning against the desk with all of his weight.

'Good for you?' Gene asks, still behind him.

Sam nods against his arm, still trying to breathe. 'Yep.'

'What's your appraisal then?'

Sam groans. 'Piss off.'

There's a snorting laugh and the sound of shuffling cloth. 'Do something about yourself, you're a bloody mess.'

Sam nods again, but if he moves then this will have ended, and if it ends...

'Christ, I know it was a good shag and all...'

'Can't I just enjoy the afterglow?'

Gene pauses. 'You're such a girl.'

That gets Sam to push up on his arm, aware of the state he's in – his messy hand, the fact that he's come all over the underside of the table, Gene's come is trickling down his legs... He twinges on the inside, a dull-sharp throb of discomfort, and he smiles even as he considers telling Gene to go and piss off – again.

Gene's already tidied himself up, has done up his belt and all, and even righted the chair that they had knocked over towards the start. Starting – Sam doesn't even know where to start, but it helps when Gene forces a tissue into his hand, and Sam stares down at the thing and closes his fingers over it. 'Look...' Gene moves around him. 'Right – next time we fancy doing this, how about we take our time? Maybe even use a bed? Not yours though, it's a bloody death-trap.'

He clears his throat, more in control now. 'You just shagged me over your incredibly flimsy desk, and I feared for my life. Need I remind you yet again, you really ought to get yourself a new one. Something befitting your standing as DCI. Sturdier too, in case we ever needed to use it again.'

'Well, at least you can still talk – that's a good thing, I guess, though you're just as bossy as ever.'

Sam keeps on smiling, because he wouldn't be too surprised if he was bleeding some, and... if you bleed, it's real, right? There is one small part of him that wants this to be real, even though he wants more than anything else to wake up, to never come back. It feels like a matter of quantity versus quality, and Sam too confused to know which is which. At least he has the bruises to look forward to, to cherish the memory.

Gene takes the messy tissue from his hand and forces another into it, closing Sam's fingers around the thing. 'Are you always going to need this much help piecing yourself together?'

Sam shrugs. 'Dunno.' But Gene's at his back now, pulling his trousers up, and he can't help himself as he shifts slightly, just a fraction, almost leaning into Gene's sturdier frame. He gets another whiff of his scent, but there's sex and sweat there too, something he shouldn't know, but now he does, and intimately. It's a good change.

'Sam?' There's a shift in his tone. 'If you want to act like this never happened, I...'

'Guv, no – no, it isn't that. I'm okay. Stop being such a girl.'

There's a pause, Sam's gone too far again, only then Gene laughs – a sharp burst of it, and Gene swats Sam's side, though far lighter than he'd smacked his arse. 'Right then. You're cleaning up the mess you made on the floor, and I see we left the desktop in a right state, so for your sake I hope you didn't get any of your spunk on the paperwork. I'm bloody well done with this rubbish for the night.'

Sam looks downwards, then back at Gene, and his smile's gone wary, thin. He'd already spotted some of their papers on the ground, not that he'd paid them much mind at the time, but the outcome of their antics is clear. 'Well...' He zips himself up, wobbling a bit on his feet. 'Bad news first, or... bad news?'

'What's that look for?' Gene growls, even as he narrows his eyes on Sam. 'It's your mess to clean up, I told you that already.' As if to show just how above it all he is, he's sauntering around to the other side of the desk, stooping down for a moment before standing back up, his pack of fags in hand. He taps one out, shoots a searing look in Sam's direction, just begging him to push the issue, turn it into a fight. Gene's already given Sam one pounding, the sort his body won't be forgetting any time soon, because this is now how it's meant to go, it being DCI Hunt's world. Clearly Gene wouldn't mind giving him another, and all Sam has to do is say the wrong thing.

By wrong, does he mean right?

'You know... whatever.' And Sam laughs, because it really has been a long, long time since he felt this relaxed, and doing some extra paperwork seems like a decent enough exchange for this fleeting moment of peace. 'Like you were saying before, fair's only fair.'


End file.
